To Wrap An Elven Princeling
by Jael the Scribe
Summary: Did you ever wonder how Bilbo’s mithril shirt came to be in Smaug’s hoard? A surprise orc attack puts Thranduil into a crisis, and a very young Legolas must rely upon the kindness of strangers. If things weren’t bad enough enter the dragon.
1. Prologue: The Forest

Did you ever wonder how Bilbo's mithril shirt came to be in Smaug's hoard? A surprise orc attack puts Thranduil into a crisis, and a very young Legolas must rely upon the kindness of strangers. If things weren't bad enough -- enter the dragon.

Disclaimer: The world of Middle-earth and the characters of Legolas, Thranduil, Galion, Smaug, and King Girion of Dale belong to JRR Tolkien, and I am merely borrowing them for a short time. All others are mine. Direct quotes are from the books of JRR Tolkien. This story was written for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of the readers. I am making no money from it. No horses were harmed in the writing of this story, however, one dragon was insulted.

My sincere thanks to my beta for this story, Lexin.

**To Wrap An Elven Princeling**

_"Here's a pretty hobbit-skin to wrap an elven-princeling in!"  
JRR Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring_

_" . . . he put on Bilbo a small coat of mail, wrought for some young elf-prince long ago. It was of silver-steel, which the elves call mithril, and with it went a belt of pearls and crystals. . . . 'I feel magnificent,' he thought, 'but I expect I look rather absurd . . .'"  
JRR Tolkien, The Hobbit_

**Prologue: The Forest**

The horses stood saddled and ready, stamping in the leaf dappled midsummer shadows at the south end of the stone bridge. The day was cool, for the previous week had been filled with rain, and the waters of the Forest River were swollen with the extra runoff from upstream. Mirkwood's king stood at the neck of his large bay charger, and his attendants, likewise waited beside their mounts. A troop of foot soldiers stood at attention, ready to guard the king and his party on their eastward journey. All was in readiness, save for the missing riders of a small dappled pony and a brown palfrey, which were being held by two impassive grooms.

A courtier sighed discreetly. The brown mare began to nibble the sleeve of the elf who held her bridle, and the pony broke wind.

"Galion," said the king, turning to his valet and erstwhile esquire. "Would you be so kind as to go see what is delaying Saerlin and the prince?"

"As you wish, Sire." Long years of seeing to the needs of his royal master had invested Galion with an abnormally restrained demeanor and an increasing love of strong drink. He crossed the stone bridge over the river, spoke the secret password that opened the stone gates into the mountainside and entered the palace. To reach the prince's chamber Galion had to first pass through a large reception hall, off which many public rooms, including Thranduil's throne room, branched. He went up a broad stairway whose stone balusters were carved into the shape of twisting tree limbs, down a carpeted hall, and then up another staircase. Burning torches set into elaborate sconces lit his way. As he went, he turned into progressively narrower hallways and through modest doors that looked as if they might lead to the servants' wings. There was a method to this, for only those very familiar with the layout of the caves could find their way to the sleeping chambers of the king and his son.

He came to a room whose carved wooden door stood partially ajar, and he heard much what he had expected to hear: "No! I will not!"

"You will, because I say you will."

"No, I will not."

Galion shook his head and sighed. The first voice was that of Legolas, very young as yet by elvish reckoning and already exhibiting the same stubborn temperament as his royal sire, although Galion would never have dared to voice such an observation out loud. The second voice was that of his nursemaid, Saerlin, poor lady, and to Galion's ears she sounded as if she were nearing the end of her patience.

Not that her patience was in great supply under any circumstances. Saerlin had been married to a friend and fellow soldier of Galion's, one of those unfortunate elves who had not returned from the battle of the Dagorlad. Saerlin had never been gentle natured, and almost three thousand years of being deprived of the pleasures of the marriage bed before she'd had more than a short time to enjoy them had not sweetened her sour temper any further. One had to wonder why she had wished to take on the difficult task of being nursemaid to a motherless elf-child. Galion had a suspicion that she had done it in hopes of getting closer to the father of said child, and perhaps catching the monarch's eye. If so, Galion thought she was deluded, for Thranduil had not shown much interest in anyone other than his young son in the years since the death of his queen. Hence, more disappointment for poor Saerlin.

He took a deep breath for courage and entered the room. "What seems to be the problem, Saerlin?"

"Prince Legolas refuses to put on his shirt of mail," the elf woman said between clenched teeth.

"Indeed, my prince, what is this foolishness?" Galion said briskly. "You know it is your father's wish that you wear your mithril shirt whenever you journey outside the palace gates."

"I don't care. It sets me apart and makes me look a fool," said Legolas, with a determination that surprised even Galion.

The article in question lay on the bed. It was a lovely piece of work, commissioned by Thranduil from the dwarves of Erebor when the prince was three years old, and Galion knew it had cost his king a small fortune. The neckline featured a yoke of vine filigree, and the belt was studded with pearls and crystal gems. Perhaps it was the gems. Knowing the Elvenking's fondness for white gemstones, the dwarvensmiths had thrown in the belt detail in hope of inspiring further business, but Galion had to admit it was a bit . . . much. Perhaps not for Thranduil, who cut a splendid figure in fine garments and enjoyed putting on a show for his subjects, but definitely for his more modest son. Who could have guessed that young Legolas would grow to have such a fierce dislike of ostentatious things?

"You must put it on, Prince Legolas. The party is ready to depart and you cannot keep them waiting."

"I will not put it on. It is too small for me."

"How can that be? It still fits well across the chest."

"Yes, but my arms have grown. My wrists stick out."

This was true, Galion thought. Already the boy was getting his growth. He shut his eyes, feeling the beginnings of a headache. The thought of a full-grown Legolas with his stubborn streak in full flower was almost too much to bear.

"My prince, if you will not put on your chain mail and come down, I will be forced to bring your father up here to see that you do it."

"Then bring him," said the child. Galion knew himself to be trumped.

Galion caught Saerlin's gaze, and the two rolled their eyes. "Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled," said the woman's cornflower blue eyes. "Just like his father," said the man's slate grey ones.

Back down the hallways he trudged and out of the gate, muttering to himself as he did so. Prince Legolas was not so much spoiled as he was overprotected. Galion could hardly blame his king for cosseting his one and only child, but he could also not fault the child for having the intelligence to sense it and rebel.

The king greeted him with a beatific smile. The courtiers, archers and grooms merely looked annoyed.

"He won't put on his mithril shirt, Sire."

"Is that so, Galion?" said Thranduil. "I suppose I must deal with it then." He nodded courteously to the waiting assembly, who had no choice other than to await his return with good grace no matter how long it took, and followed Galion back across the bridge.

"You had children, Galion," Thranduil said softly to his valet as they went up the broad staircase. "However did you deal with this sort of thing?"

"Their mother dealt with it, Sire," he said and regretted it as soon as the words were out, for he saw the look of pain flit across the king's face. "You must also remember that my children were born in the early days when Lord Oropher first led us to Greenwood the Great and we dwelled upon Amon Lanc. There was no need for the young ones to be so closely guarded back then."

"And now, The Necromancer dwells in that same spot, and his orcs fill these woods with their terror. I would like to give my son the freedom that once we had, but I dare not." Thranduil sighed. "How strange life is, Galion. You and I are of an age, yet you are a grandsire many times over, while I am raising my first and only. And I am having quite a time of it."

The child was staring into his fireplace, ramrod straight and defiant, as monarch and valet entered. Saerlin bowed and fluttered her eyelashes and was completed ignored.

"What's this I hear, my son? You have been looking forward to this journey to Dale for weeks. Surely you do not want to miss the celebration? Girion's youngest son is just your size. I hear he is looking forward to meeting you. Why will you not put on your armor? I would think that any young elf your age would delight in such a set of mail."

Galion, as ever, was amazed to see his Elven-lord deal with his child thus. Thranduil's temper had been forged before the Black Gates of Mordor and his own warriors trembled before him. Some of that patience would not go amiss with his courtiers, or even his valet, Galion thought, yet it seemed to be reserved for the child.

"I want to go with you to Dale, _Ada_. But I do not wish to look foolish. No other elf wears mail of mithril. Your archers wear armor of leather."

Galion saw the king tense ever so slightly. He had been his esquire at the battle of the Dagorlad, where too many Silvan warriors had fallen with their leather armor pierced by orcish arrows, while the hosts of Gil-galad had fared better in their metal gear. He had ridden at Thranduil's side on the sad journey home and been witness to his palpable grief at his inability to protect his warriors.

"Legolas, there is a shadow on this wood, and the minions of The Enemy may attack at any time. You are a prince of your people and you must keep yourself safe. Just as I, their king, must keep myself safe."

"Are you wearing mithril mail, _Ada_?"

Galion saw Thranduil blink. "You cannot see beneath my outer clothing, my son," he countered smoothly, with the guile that had made him the best negotiator east of the Misty Mountains.

"May I wear my mail beneath my tunic, like you?" Legolas asked.

"Of course, as long as you wear it."

"All right, _Ada_." said Legolas meekly. Saerlin rushed forward to help the child out of his tunic, but Thranduil waved her off and began to undress his son himself. "Why is King Girion celebrating, _Ada_?"

"It is the majority of his eldest son. Girion is very proud of his heir, and rightly so."

"Majority? What is that?" Legolas was down to his undershirt, and Thranduil began threading his arms through the mail shirt.

"It is when a young male of the _Edain_ reaches the age of twenty-one and his bones and muscles are set. When his body is strong enough to bear the weight of full armor and wield a sword he takes his place among the men."

"Will I have a majority when I am twenty-one?"

"No, my son," Thranduil said, fastening the jeweled belt. "That will not happen until you have fifty winters to your credit."

"Why? Will I not be strong enough?"

"Put up your arms, Legolas, and let me put your tunic over your head. If you are anything like me you will have most of your full height by the time you are forty, but we Firstbornare different, and the requirements of adulthood are far more than bearing a sword. You have much more to learn before you can take your rightful place in our society. Far more than the _Edain_."

"It seems unfair."

"Perhaps so, Legolas, but your body is made to last the ages of this earth and your mind along with it. At fifty, an _adan_ is already feeling the weight of his years while you will be just beginning your life. They must hurry, because Eru's gift to Men takes them so soon. We, on the other hand, have all the time in the world."

Thranduil smoothed the tunic down his son's body and tied on his cloak. "Is this good now?"

Legolas nodded. 'Yes, _Ada_." He put his small hand into his father's larger one, and the Elvenking and his son proceeded from the room.

oOo

The orcs attacked near the eastern edge of the forest where the Elf path ran along the river on a high, steep bank overlooking the rushing water. The first sign of trouble came when one of the foot soldiers pitched forward silently with an arrow through his neck. Within seconds the air was filled with the hiss of flying arrows, and black-clad orcs wearing the insignia of Dol Guldur began to swarm out of the trees. Thranduil and his mounted nobles drew their swords and charged in among the attackers, while the foot soldiers drew their bows and returned fire. The horses began to whinny and snort in the confusion.

"Galion, protect the prince!" Thranduil yelled, whirling his charger and trampling down an unlucky orc in his path. Galion reined his own horse around, just in time to hear Saerlin scream as an arrow hit Legolas in the center of his chest. The force of the blow knocked the child from his saddle, and he tumbled down the steep bank. Within moments his small form was lost to sight beneath the roiling currents of the Forest River. Thranduil, busy with two orcs who were jabbing at the chest and belly of his horse in an attempt to bring it down, did not see. Galion rode to his king and relieved one of the orcs of his head with a quick swipe of his sword, while Thranduil struck down the other.

"My lord, quickly! " Galion cried. By now the foot soldiers had managed to kill or chase off most of the orcs, and the mounted courtiers were making short work of the rest. Two more of the soldiers were dead, and one of the courtiers had an arrow in his leg.

Thranduil turned to see a pale and weeping Saerlin struggling to keep her palfrey from bolting, and then he stiffened as he spied the trembling and now riderless pony. He leaped from his horse and ran to her side. "What happened? Tell me!"

"He was hit, Sire. He fell into the river," she wailed.

The Elvenking ran to the steep edge of the bank and picked up a spent orc arrow with the tip badly blunted.

"His mail stopped the arrow, thank Elbereth," said Galion, reaching Thranduil's side. "But he'll be badly stunned, perhaps knocked unconscious."

Thranduil ran back to his horse and swung into the saddle. "Séregon, see to the dead and get the wounded back to the palace. Magorion needs a healer for that leg. And bring back as many elves as you can muster. We have to find my son." He kicked his horse and galloped off east, his eyes fixed on the river.

"Ai! He's not watching where he's going," Galion muttered to himself, running to his own mount. "He'll put that horse's foot in a rabbit hole and break his neck." He galloped after his king.

Galion caught up to his lord at the edge of the forest, where the river rounded a spit of rock and flowed out into the marshes. Past the forest wall, the river split off into a maze of smaller channels. If the child's body had been swept this far, and there had been no sign of him back along the banks, he could be in any one of those backwaters, hidden among the tall grass and poplars.

Thranduil stood staring silently to the east. His face, in profile, was eerily calm. Galion had seen that same stunned look once before, on the plains of the Dagorlad when Oropher had fallen within yards of the two of them.

"My lord, Séregon is returning with help. We will find him."

Thranduil turned to him, his face blank. "Yes. We will find him, if it takes me until the breaking of the world. We will find my son."

_To be continued . . ._

**Translation:  
**_Ada_: Sindarin for Daddy

**Author's Notes:** Here comes my customary note on elves and saddles. For those who will insist that elves never use saddles, I cite the following example of an elf using both saddle and bridle. The horse is Asfaloth; the rider is Glorfindel:

_"Suddenly into view below came a white horse, gleaming in the shadows, running swiftly. In the dusk its __headstall__ flickered and flashed, as if it were studded with gems like living stars. ( . . .) the rider had __reined__ in his horse and halted ( . . .)'You shall ride my horse,' said Glorfindel. 'I will shorten the __stirrups__ up to the __saddle skirts__, and you must sit as tight as you can." Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter XII: Flight to the Ford_

I am a horse owner and a rider myself. When I first wrote this tale, I envisioned Thranduil and his courtiers brushing horsehairs from the seats of their breeches upon their arrival at Dale, and I could not help thinking there was something wrong with the picture. In a subsequent story, an adult Legolas will exhibit his ability to ride without tack, but for now, the saddles are being used for pragmatic reasons.


	2. Part Two: The River Child

Did you ever wonder how Bilbo's mithril shirt came to be in Smaug's hoard? A surprise orc attack puts Thranduil into a crisis, and a very young Legolas must rely upon the kindness of strangers. If things weren't bad enough -- enter the dragon.

Disclaimer: The world of Middle-earth and the characters of Legolas, Thranduil, Galion, Smaug, and King Girion of Dale belong to JRR Tolkien, and I am merely borrowing them for a short time. All others are mine. Direct quotes are from the books of JRR Tolkien. This story was written for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of the readers. I am making no money from it. No horses were harmed in the writing of this story, however, one dragon was insulted.

My sincere thanks to my beta for this story, Lexin.

**Part Two: The River Child**

Tulie, wife of Tamin the fowler, knelt at the riverbank, busy at her washing. It was a task she hated. It had not always been so.

As a new bride, almost thirty years before, she had enjoyed the trip to the river and the novelty of washing her young husband's shirts. And at the waning of the moon, each month, there had also been the necessary laundering that stemmed from a woman's secret time. When months had turned into years without any change, she had begun to see these times as both a disappointment and a failure, and there had been many occasions when her tears had mixed with the waters of the river. She had come to dislike the spot for its bitter memories.

Now, even her tears had dried up, for her moon blood had ceased two years past, and she knew that the cottage she shared with her beloved Tamin would never know the blessing of a child's laughter.

Leaning over the water to rinse out one last piece of laundry, she spied a flash of gold in the reeds along the bank. Curious, she fastened her skirts high about her waist and waded into the river. As she neared, she let out a cry of surprise, for the golden object was the head of a child who floated on his back, unmoving. The child's eyes were closed, and he wore a tunic of what looked to be sodden green velvet. If there had been a cloak, it had been lost in the river. The pale golden hair spread out like tendrils in the water, moving lazily with the current.

She rushed to the child and took the body up in her arms, carrying it to the bank. It was surprisingly light. From the pallor of the skin, she feared the worst, but as she looked more closely she could see shallow breathing. She turned the child over and pumped against the back. There was a rush of water, a cough, and the child began to breath more normally, although the eyes remained closed. She picked him up -- she assumed it was a 'him' from the breeches and small boots, although the face was as delicate as any girl's -- and rushed back up the path to the cottage, leaving her laundry on the bank.

"Tamin! Tamin! Look what I found in the river!"

Her husband sat at the table, fletching arrows from a pile of recently plucked feathers. He looked up as she flew through the doorway. "Tulie," he said in amazement. "Look at the ears. That is a child of the Wood-elves!"

"We must get him out of his wet garments," she insisted, carrying the boy into the bedroom and laying him on their bed. First off were the boots and the leggings, and she confirmed that this was indeed a male child. The tunic was more difficult, and she struggled to get it over the child's head. Concentrating on the difficult task, she heard Tamin gasp.

"This is mithril," he whispered, as the bright mail coat was revealed.

"How could he float in chain mail?" she asked.

"It's light as a feather, and so are the Fair Folk," her husband replied. "Even the weight of his clothes would not have been enough to drag him down. Whatever was he doing near the river? The Wood-elves are usually more careful with their young ones."

Tamin gently removed the coat of chain mail and tossed it to Tulie. "Keep this safe. It's probably worth the wealth of the entire marsh and most of Dale as well." Tulie hung it over a chair, and indeed, she could barely feel the weight of it. Returning to the boy, she helped her husband remove the undershirt. She gave a little gasp as this revealed a massive purpling bruise on the child's chest. In one spot, the metal rings had been driven with such force that they had broken the skin.

"Something hit him very hard," Tamin said. "He seems to have no broken ribs, but he will need something to draw off the bruising and give him ease."

"Who would hit a child, Tamin? Or let him stray into the river? I don't understand this."

Tamin shrugged. "All we can do is to keep him warm and tend to him until he wakes."

They had another tiny room in the cottage, with a small bed that had never been used. Tulie made it up with soft blankets and they laid the elf-child on it. He had still not awakened, although the color had returned to his lips and his skin no longer felt so cold. Tulie sat beside him, stroking the pale gold hair and thinking how strange it was to have that nursery bed filled at last. She stayed beside him until darkness had fallen and she needed to leave to prepare her husband's supper.

oOo

Darkness had fallen, and Thranduil fretted. His Chief Advisor, Séregon, had returned with as many elves as the palace could spare without being left to the mercy of orcs and spiders. The most important among these searchers were the raft elves, who knew the currents of the marsh and the layout of the larger islands. Unfortunately, the raft elves had proved to be less useful than hoped, for they had informed Séregon and Galion that the high waters had changed the currents significantly, leaving them almost as puzzled as the other elves about where the young prince might have been carried.

Galion was doing his best to keep their pessimistic words from the ears of the king. "Hush, you fool!" he said to one of them, who had spoken of dragging the river. "If he hears you he will go wild, and there will be no controlling him. Already he insists on searching in the dark. Even with torches and good eyesight, something may be missed."

Séregon spoke. "I will see that each searching party has a river elf to guide the way and explain the ways of the water to the others. Are there any _Edain_ living in the marshes?" he asked.

"There are some small villages, here and there. Many are out of the main channels, back near higher ground," said one of the river elves. "We do not know them well."

"We will send elves to ask among them once daylight returns. I fear that even with the number of searchers we have, the going will be slow. You, Galion, stay with the king. Try to get him to rest, if you can."

Galion found Thranduil up to his waist in water, torch in hand, searching beneath some overhanging roots.

"Come out of there, please, Sire. You don't know the water, and if you put a foot wrong you'll be swept away. Then we'll be forced to look for you as well."

The king climbed wearily from the river and sat on the bank.

"Look at those boots," said Galion. "I won't be able to fix them, nor your breeches either."

"Boots?" said Thranduil. "You are worried about boots? Galion, I just told my boy that he had all the time in the world, and the _Belair _have made a liar of me. To the pits of Thangorodrim with my boots and my breeches too!"

Over three thousand years of attending to his Elven-lord had taught Galion that if he said one more word, he would be wished to the pits of Thangorodrim along with the clothing, so he held his tongue and watched Thranduil return to the water.

oOo

Legolas awoke in the dark, in a strange bed. His last memory was of a sudden blow that had knocked the air from him, a long tumble, and the chill of the river. He was warm now, wearing a strange shirt that was too large for him. His nose and lungs felt raw, and his chest ached in the center. He put his hand to it gingerly and pulled it away with a whimper of pain. He was very sore.

"_Ada_?" he called. He heard a rustling from another room and a figure entered and sat beside him on the bed. "_Ir im? Man carnen_?" he asked.

"Hush, child, you are safe now," answered a warm voice in the Westron tongue, which Legolas understood quite well. He realized he must be among the _Edain_, but why? Where were the elves, and where was his father?

He struggled to remember, and there came the last picture before he had been hit -- a soldier falling dead, arrows flying, and his _ada_ fighting off two orcs. "No . . ." he whispered, humiliated that the tears were coming into his eyes and weakening his voice. He was no baby, to be sobbing in fear, but if he was alone with the _Edain_, something must have gone terribly wrong.

He felt the covers lifted and the warmth of a body against his own, drawing him close and comforting him. This body was soft in places that his father's was not. Legolas was not used to being cuddled by anyone other than his father, as his nursemaid was not the affectionate sort, but he found the feeling of soft breasts and arms surrounding him to be quite pleasant. It brought back memories so faint they were almost dreamlike. This woman smelled of sweat, wood smoke, and strong soap of the kind the Wood-elf laundresses used to wash the clothing. She was no elf, but he found her touch very soothing as she stroked his hair and whispered words of reassurance into his ear. Much to his humiliation, he had been trembling with the fright of wakening in a strange place and the worries over his father, but he soon relaxed and allowed his body's need for rest reassert itself. In the woman's embrace, he drowsed. His eyes lost focus and he slept.

oOo

Tamin opened his eyes at first light to find himself alone in bed. Before stepping outside to tend to his bladder, he stuck his head through the doorway of the small spare room and saw what he had been expecting to see. His wife lay in the tiny bed, curled around the strange elf child like a cat around a kitten. In sleep, her face showed a contentment he had never seen before, and it brought a pang to his heart. Their lack of children had been a sorrow to him as well, but as much for the pain it had caused Tulie as for his own disappointment. It was good to see her happy, if only for a brief moment.

As if feeling his gaze upon her, she opened her eyes and smiled. Very gently, she disentangled herself from the sleeping boy and eased out of bed. Together, they went outside, and she stood next to him while he relieved himself. "Must you leave today, Tamin?"

He nodded. "The high waters will have played havoc with my nets and snares. Many will need to be replaced, and for those that remain, I hate to lose a perfectly good catch to the water and the rot. It should take me a day or two. I will stop past the village on my return, and I will ask for news about the boy. Will you be all right here alone with him?"

"Of course. I don't think he'll be any trouble."

Tamin dressed and packed his gear while Tulie made him up a pack of cram for his days out in the marsh. Kissing her goodbye, he set off down the path to the river, where his boat was tied.

oOo

The elf came to Tulie's door the following day. He was tall and fair of face, as were all the woodland folk, and he spoke his lilting-accented Westron with a voice that was soft and full of courtesy. Tulie had little experience of the elves, having seen the raftsmen once or twice, but even to her untutored eye, this elf looked unusually tired, as if he had not rested or stopped to eat in many hours. Even stranger, he was dirty. His boots and clothing were spotted and caked with mud, and his long dark hair was wet, tangled and had bits of marsh grass caught in it. "Mistress, we seek a child of our kind, who fell into the river two days ago. Have you seen any sign? A bit of clothing? Or . . .a body along the bank?"

Tulie tensed. The child, who had wakened the day before and told her that his name was Laygehliss, or something like it, was asleep in the back bedroom. Something had happened to him that had frightened him very badly. He spoke of armed attackers and would say no more. This morning, his bruised chest had hurt him worse than ever, so Tulie had given him some willow bark tea and told him to nap. Now, he would be taken from her.

Before she had a chance to think, she heard her own voice telling the elf, no, that she had seen nothing unusual on the river. The elf had only to push past her or peer around her head to see the mail shirt draped over a chair in the corner, but, either too tired or too trusting to doubt her word, he nodded gravely and turned from her door.

She quickly shut the door, telling herself that she really had no reason to trust this strange unkempt elf, and that she might be saving the child from the very ones who had tried to do him harm. Yet in her heart she knew she was lying to the man and to herself. It was her need to keep this child near her for even a few more days that had made her do it.

She turned to see the elf-child standing in the doorway. He was barefoot and still wearing nothing but Tamin's old shirt. His yellow hair was free and fell around his shoulders. The sight of his innocent face filled her with shame.

"My lady Tulie, I thought I heard voices."

"You heard nothing, little one, it was just me singing to myself." She smiled to disguise the bitter taste her untruths had left in her heart. "I am no lady, just Tulie. And you should not be out of bed."

"If I do not get up and move, I will not heal. Every warrior knows this."

"You are too small to be warrior, Laygehliss."

"Legolas," he corrected her gently. "I will grow, and I will be a fighter. What happened to my clothes?"

"I have them safe," she told him. "Laygolas, is your father a soldier? What does he look like?"

"His hair is yellow, like mine. And he is a mighty warrior. Those _yrch_ could not have killed him. I know it."

Tulie let out a silent sigh of relief. At least the elf she turned away had not been the father. She did not speak the tongue of the Wood-elves, and the other word, she did not recognise. Perhaps it meant some kind of brigand of the sort that would attempt to steal a richly dressed child. "Do you have a mother, little one?"

The child shook his head.

"What happened to her?"

Again, he shook his head.

Poor little thing, Tulie thought. No mother, maybe no more father from the sound of it. "Your clothing has dried. I will help you into it, if you allow me to put some medicine on your chest first. The heat will help to carry the bruise away."

He nodded. Tulie fetched the jar of liniment she used on Tamin's aches, sprains, and his rheumatism, which was considerable from years of wading in the dank waters of the marsh. She took off the shirt and began to apply the pungent smelling lotion to the boy's chest. He grimaced, but bit his lip and made no further protest.

"You are as brave as any warrior I have met," she said, helping him into the rest of his clothing.

"Tulie," he asked shyly, "will you braid my hair for me?"

"Of course, little one, if you will tell me how to do it."

The child's face lit up. "Can you give me two braids along the side to the back of my ears?"

"I don't see why not."

"It takes too much time, or so this is what they tell me at home. It is the way our archers keep their hair away from their bowstrings." The boy was practically beaming with excitement.

"We have all the time in the world, Laygolas. Just you and me, and nothing else to do today." Tulie saw his face cloud briefly, but he soon recovered as he told her how to braid the hair. It took at least an hour to get it right, but she enjoyed every moment of feeling the soft golden strands in her fingers. When she was done, she showed him the results in her little looking glass, and he beamed. He was beautiful when he smiled.

He proceeded to explore the cottage, examining the most mundane objects of her daily life with a grave curiosity. Everything from her sewing kit to Tamin's half finished arrows to the chamber pot got the same otherworldly scrutiny. He was not like any Mortal child, that much was apparent to her, especially when he went to the fireplace and began to trace strange letters in the ashes that coated the hearth. She was going to have to return him to his people eventually, she knew. But her heart was lost to this strange child, and she wished to prolong the time she had.

oOo

On the fourth day, the elvish searching parties had reached the eastern end of the swamp and had regrouped where the divided waters of the Forest River came together and flowed southeastward toward the Long Lake. There had been no sign, no word of the prince in any of the small marsh villages the elves had canvassed. All the elves were tired, but Thranduil was the most haggard of them all, and Galion was seriously concerned for his lord.

Magorion, the Elvenking's general, had joined them as soon as his leg wound had permitted. It was Magorion now who beckoned Galion away from the king's side.

Thranduil was refusing to accept the information of a harried raft-elf as Galion hurried away with the general. "I don't care! A few days is not enough time. We will turn around and search the waterways again. And then we will turn again and come back this way. As many times as it takes!"

Magorion made sure they were out of earshot and spoke sotto voce. "We have to get him out of here, Galion. It has been four days. If we were going to find the prince alive, we would have done so by now. I don't want Thranduil here when we . . . ."

Galion nodded. "But how?"

"Séregon has a plan. You know Thranduil best. Say whatever you must to back us up."

At that moment a soldier approached. "My lord Magorion, one of the river elves tells me that they have found Prince Legolas's cloak on a snag in the south channel."

Magorion sighed. "_Ai_, this is it then. Stay here, and I swear, if you breathe one word of this to anyone before you see the king ride off to the east, I will make you very, very sorry." He grabbed Galion's arm and the two of them headed back to where Séregon waited. The three then approached Thranduil, who was still shouting orders at several other elves.

"My lord, your advisors have been conferring, and we feel it would be best for you to continue on to Dale at this point," Séregon said respectfully.

"Attending festivities is the very last thing I want to be doing at this time."

"No, my lord, but looking after the interests of the realm and your own health is of the utmost importance right now. The alliance between Dale and Mirkwood is of long standing. Girion's eldest son will be the next king, and his friendship will be important as well. You are not doing us any good here by driving yourself to exhaustion. You are of more use to Mirkwood in Dale than you are to us here. We will send news to you if we find anything before you have had the chance to pay your respects and return."

Thranduil looked at them sharply. "Does Magorion agree with this?"

"Aye, my lord, I do. You are needed in Dale. I am sure any one of us would be glad to go in your stead, but it must be you, as you well know."

"You see, Sire?" Galion added with what he hoped sounded like sincerity. "Your Chief Advisor and your general are in agreement about this. It will be for only a few days, and you surely need the rest."

Thranduil's shoulders sagged. "Very well. I cannot go against all three of you. I will go to Dale. Bring my horse." A groom appeared immediately, leading Thranduil's big bay and Galion's brown gelding. "That was quick," the king observed sardonically. "My nobles take a great deal for granted."

He swung into his saddle and rode off, with Galion close behind.

The road to Dale cut away from the river almost immediately and ran due east through low foothills. Thranduil was quiet for a while, and Galion was not eager to break the silence.

"My Chief Advisor, my general, and my valet must all think me a great fool," the king said, finally.

"I thought you might see through it, Sire," Galion said. "Why did you agree to go?"

"Because, Galion, if I go to Dale and keep up the charade, that is a few more days I can cling to the fiction that my son is alive. I fear that is all that is left to me. Just a few more days of ignorant hope."

Thranduil urged his horse forward, and Galion could no longer see his king's face.

oOo

Thranduil urged his horse forward so that Galion could not see that his courage was threatening to fail him. He had lived too long and seen too much.

He had seen his own father cut down before the Black Gates of Mordor, along with two thirds of his army. The blood and the horror of it had scarred him, but he had lived and soldiered on, becoming the leader his people needed him to be. The young wife who had helped to heal his grief during that dark time was gone now too, and he had survived that, for she had left him Legolas. No matter how dark the world became, Legolas gave him reason to live.

But now Thranduil feared that this next loss would carry him over the edge into despair or outright madness, he did not know which, nor did he care. For the next few days, he would go through the motions of diplomacy that he was so good at, smiling, kissing hands and slapping shoulders, ever the charming Elf-king. He would be hollow, a ghost. And when the news came, finally, he was not sure what, if anything, would be left of him.

_To be continued . . . ._

**Translations from Sindarin:  
**"_Ir im? Man carnen_?" : "Where am I? What happened?"  
Translation taken from Dreamingfifi's Sindarin Phrasebook at Merin Essi ar Quenteli. My thanks.  
_Belair_: Sindarin for Valar, the gods.


	3. Part Three: Fire And Mist

Did you ever wonder how Bilbo's mithril shirt came to be in Smaug's hoard? A surprise orc attack puts Thranduil into a crisis, and a very young Legolas must rely upon the kindness of strangers. If things weren't bad enough -- enter the dragon.

Disclaimer: The world of Middle-earth and the characters of Legolas, Thranduil, Galion, Smaug, and King Girion of Dale belong to JRR Tolkien, and I am merely borrowing them for a short time. All others are mine. Direct quotes are from the books of JRR Tolkien. This story was written for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of the readers. I am making no money from it. No horses were harmed in the writing of this story, however, one dragon was insulted.

My sincere thanks to my beta for this story, Lexin.

**Part Three: Fire and Mist**

The arrival at Dale was subdued, for Thranduil and Galion were hardly the princely retinue that had set out from Mirkwood days before. Thranduil had even stopped for a short time in the hills outside of Dale to let Galion brush him down. He had stood, patient and uncomplaining as his own horse, while his valet fussed over him, removing the debris from his hair and repairing the damage to his clothing as much as possible. It seemed so very pointless, as if he was a thing of straw, a stuffed dummy fit only for show.

It was a glorious summer evening. Girion and his family waited on the steps of the King's House to welcome Dale's most important ally.

"Forgive me, my old friend, for being late," Thranduil said.

Girion's face was grave with concern. "Thranduil, my brother! My heart grieves for your trouble. If I can be of any help, you have but to say the word."

Thranduil shook his head. "All that can be done is being done. I will not darken your heir's festivities with my sorrow.

"And look at you, my lad! No longer a lad -- you are a splendid young man," he exclaimed clapping Girion's oldest son upon his broad shoulder. A splendid young man he was, too, wearing the chain mail armor of triple beaten silver that had cost his father a necklace of emeralds for the dwarves of Erebor to fashion as a coming of age gift. Thranduil's chest caught at the memory of another expensive set of armor, and he fought to rid his mind of the image of it drenched in river mud. He forced himself to smile.

He turned his attention to the queen. He was always good with the women -- it was a gift from the _Belair_. "As lovely as ever," he murmured, kissing her hand. She WAS as lovely as ever. She had been good friends with his wife. This was another path he did not wish his mind to take, and he forced his thoughts away from it.

The younger boy stood at her side. Nice looking little fellow. About the size of Legolas, maybe a little bigger. They would have gotten along. Smile; don't think about it, he told himself.

There followed a meal where the meat and other fine viands might as well have been straw and where the wine tasted to him like water, although, fearful for once of losing control, he had warned Galion to cut him off after the third goblet. He sleepwalked through the torch lit evening of songs and conversation, not really hearing them, and Galion was ever at his side. He felt oddly grateful for that. At last they were shown to a sleeping chamber, and he tumbled onto the bed, muttering, "I will find no rest," as his exhausted body won the fight with his mind and black oblivion took him.

The next day he went through the motions again, always with his ears peeled toward the west, waiting for the sound of hoof beats on the road and the messenger he knew must inevitably come.

The doom, however, came unexpected from the north the next afternoon. The bells of Dale began to ring, and those in the King's House rushed to the windows to see the forests on the slopes of Erebor ablaze. The crackle of the flames could be heard from that great distance, but Thranduil's ears picked out the subtler beat of mighty wings. "Sweet Elbereth!" he whispered in horror. "A dragon is come!"

"To horse!" Girion cried. "Thror will be needing our aid!" The soldiers of Dale began to assemble and take up their arms.

"Look to your own defense! "Thranduil cried out amidst the confusion. "The dwarves are in their mountain while Dale lies in the open valley. It is the wealth of the _Naugrim_ that has brought this doom down upon you!" His own horse was brought round with the others, and he mounted along with Galion and the rest of Girion's men. The armed train rode off at a gallop with Girion in the lead.

Before they had gotten very far, there came a mighty hiss and roar from the foot of the mountain. The dragon had breathed his flame upon the river where it flowed forth from Thror's gates and turned it into steam. Thranduil shut his eyes and spared a moment of pity for the poor dwarves caught and boiled alive within that searing fume. The light of the sun disappeared behind the clouds of vapor and ash, and all was suddenly fog and darkness. It became impossible to see for more than a few feet in either direction, and Thranduil lost sight of Girion and his son, along with the other men at arms.

A new sound raised his hackles. The beat of the wings grew closer, and he began to hear screams coming out of the fog. That was joined by the crackle of more flames, this time from the south. The dragon was burning the village of Dale.

There came a sudden rush of wings, and a mighty wind from above almost knocked Thranduil from the saddle. He heard Galion calling weakly and found the valet sitting stunned on the ground. "I think it took my horse," Galion said with a quaver in his voice.

"Quickly, up behind me! We can do nothing here, but there are women and children in Dale. We must get them to the safety of the river." Using only his elvish sense of dead reckoning to guide him, for he was almost as blinded by the fog as the Mortals, Thranduil rode back to the King's House, which he found already in flames. He jumped from his horse and once Galion had dismounted, he gave the beast a slap on the rump to send it away. He hoped the animal would have the wit to run as far as it could.

He found the queen sheltering against a wall, shielding her younger son.

"You must get to the river," he ordered.

"Not without Girion and my eldest," she protested.

His courtly manners worn thin by circumstances, Thranduil picked her up and threw her over his shoulder like a sack. "You'll come with no fuss?" he asked the boy, who stared up with wide eyes and nodded. "Good boy," said Thranduil.

Galion had meanwhile gathered a group of maidservants and younger footmen, and the group set off toward the bend in the river. The water was as hot as a bath, but it provided sanctuary from the flames, which were now almost everywhere. High above their heads, the dragon could be heard swooping back and forth.

"Galion, stay here and keep the queen and her son safe. I am going back for more, if there are any to be found. I will direct them to the river. When enough have gathered, I want you to lead them south to Esgaroth."

"Sire . . . ."

"This is my order, Galion. I expect you to obey it." Thranduil waited for his valet's reluctant nod before turning and heading back into the chaos.

In moments of profanity, Thranduil had often spoken of the pits of Thangorodrim, yet during that long afternoon and night he felt he were experiencing them for real. Amid the smell of smoke and burning flesh, listening to the screams around him, he helped to pull old people from burning houses and carried weeping children to the riverbanks. He lost count of how many times he told some Dalesman or woman to follow the river south to safety. Many, he feared were too shocked by the sudden carnage or the worry over their lost loved ones to pay him any heed.

Always above them was the sound of the dragon's wings and the roar of his flaming breath. At any moment he expected to be snatched up or burnt to a cinder himself, yet the merciful end never seemed to happen. As the night ended and the fog began to glow with dawn's pale light, things grew more quiet. There was still scattered weeping and the hiss of the fog on charred timbers, but the sound of the dragon's wings was heard no more. Thranduil deduced it had flown back north to deal with the remaining dwarves inside the mountain, poor beggars. Throughout the night, he had seen soldiers of Dale but never a sign of Girion or his guard.

Thranduil made his way back on foot to the spot where the fog had sprung up and he had been separated from the king of Dale. Rounding a corner of the trail in the drifting fog, ever alert for the sounds of attack, Thranduil spied a pile of dark objects upon the ground. The smell told him before his eyes did. The bodies of men and horses lay together, all charred beyond recognition. One, at the forefront of the group, lay atop another as if trying to shield it from the flames. This second body wore an expensive coat of chain armor that had melted partially into a puddle of silver in the dirt around it.

Thranduil heard a moan of horror and realised it had come from his own throat. He turned and stumbled back down the path until the sight was lost to him. He sank down onto a rock and looked around carefully. He was utterly alone in the shifting fog.

Mighty Thranduil Oropherion lowered his face into his hands and sobbed.

oOo

Tamin returned from the marshes three days after his departure, carrying a brace of herons at his side. He was most surprised to hear the sound of childish laughter as he walked up the path to his cottage. He recognized two of the children as belonging to Tulie's youngest sister. The other was the elf-child. The two boys were kneeling in the dirt of the front yard, playing a game that involved throwing stones into a circle in the dust. The elfling's silvery laugh mixed with the throaty chuckle of Tamin's brown haired nephew, while his niece, a curly headed little thing of six years looked on with frank adoration. Not for her brother either, Tamin noted with some amusement. Well, the elf was a pretty little fellow with all that yellow hair and those pale blue eyes. This, no doubt, would be the first of many admiring females in his life. Tamin sighed, for his heart was heavy with the information he would soon have to impart to his wife.

Inside, he found Tulie talking to her sister. This disturbed him, for while he liked his sister-in-law well enough, the man she had married was a different story entirely. Ottan was a man ever on the lookout for wealth but always through guile rather than from any honest effort of his own. Tamin frankly did not trust the man. The young woman had a toddler on her hip and from the swelling of her waist, it seemed there would soon be another. That was one thing, at least, that his useless brother-in-law seemed able to accomplish.

"I would like to have a word with you in private, dearest," he said, with a cordial nod to his sister-in-law. He took Tulie by the arm and led her into the bedroom. "I have found out who the child is, my love, and the time has come when we must return him to his father. It is the son of the Woodland king, and they have almost given him up for dead. The village was full of talk about the Wood-elves searching the marshes for a child and enquiring at folks' doors. I am surprised they did not come here already."

Tulie became suddenly very quiet and would not meet his eye.

"Tulie? What have you done?"

"Forgive me, Tamin. A Wood-elf came, and I lied. I told him I had seen no sign of an elf_-_child. I knew it was wrong even as I did it, but I could not help myself. I don't know why I did such a foolish, wicked thing."

Tamin sighed and embraced his wife. "I know why you did it, beloved, but that does not make things better for us. Oh, Tulie, this is Thranduil of Mirkwood we are talking about! You have heard the stories about him. They say that he has been half mad with grief and worry, and his anger will be terrible when he finds out one of his elves was lied to."

"What will you do?" she asked timidly.

"We must let the Elvenking know his son lives, and we must do it with all haste."

"Will you go to the elves?"

Tamin shook his head. "The elves have moved back to the south channel. At the village, they said the king had ridden on to Dale. If I take the north road across the heath, I can get to Dale faster than I can reach the south of the marsh. I will carry the news myself. I would not have him think his son dead one moment longer than necessary. If he is angry with me, so be it. You keep the boy here safe until we return." He kissed her fondly on the top of her head. "He is truly a beautiful child. You will have him for a few more days at least. Take care, though. The entire village will know he is here five minutes after Serka returns home."

He passed through the front room under the startled eyes of his sister-in-law, paused to grab another packet of cram from the kitchen area, and left the cottage. Outside, the elf-child was three quarters of the way up a tree, with his nephew not far behind. The young elf was encouraging Tamin's niece to join them, much to the little girl's delight. As he headed north toward the path across the heath, their happy voices followed him. It was such a homely sound, the simple joy of children at play. How he wished . . . .

Afoot, it took him a day and a half to reach the foothills around Dale. He was tired, but he stopped only for brief rests, pushing on through the night, for he knew that somewhere ahead, a father lay, sick with worry over a lost child. On the last night, he saw a red glow coming from the slopes of the Lonely Mountain and behind the hills, and he began to smell a queer reek of smoke and ash on the wind. The morning dawned with fog and an eerie quiet, as Tamin walked down into the valley of Dale.

oOo

Ottan rode into the front yard late the next morning after Tamin's departure. Tulie saw her brother-in-law from her window and frowned. It was so very like him to ride when he left his wife and children to walk. In the marshes, a horse was a useless affectation at best, but Ottan told one and all he kept it for his 'business' trips to Esgaroth. She noted with disgust that the lack of exercise was making Ottan fat.

Ottan barged through the door without knocking, and the first thing his eyes fell upon was Legolas, who was eating a bowl of porridge at the table. The second thing he spied was the mithril shirt, which was still draped, half forgotten, over a chair in the corner. This seemed to delight him the most and he went over and picked it up, running the liquid silver through his stubby hands.

"Serka told me right," he smirked. "This has to be old King Thranduil's son. This rich little shirt proves it, even if wayward elflings were a copper to the dozen."

"What do you want, Ottan?" Tulie said coldly.

"What do you think? I want a part of the king's generous gratitude for the return of his brat -- I mean his dear lost son," he said, with a quick glance at Legolas, who was now eyeing this strange man with a quiet wariness. "I never figured you or Tamin to be so clever. Keeping this one secret, and Tamin going off to take all the reward for himself."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I? Didn't Tamin leave yesterday afternoon for Dale? Well, sister, first to Dale gets the prize and the gold from the happy father. I have the horse, and I'll have the little prince along with me for the joyous reunion. I'll pass your husband on the North road and leave him in the dust." He tossed the chain mail onto the table next to Legolas. "Here, put this on. Your Dada will be more impressed if his little elfling is all dressed and pretty when we show up. I wouldn't want him to think I was tempted to make off with it."

"No."

"What did you say?"

"I said no, I will not put on the mail shirt and I will not come with you," Legolas replied. "Tulie wants me to stay here. So did the man, Tamin."

"Well, aren't we the little lordling?" Ottan sneered. "Put the blasted thing on," he said, grabbing hold of Legolas and attempting to force his arms into the silver sleeves. Legolas promptly sank his teeth into the man's fleshy forearm. "Ow, you little bastard!"

He drew back his hand to hit the boy, only to have Tulie rush in between them. "Leave him alone. Is this the way you treat my sister and your own children?"

He caught her by the arm, brought it behind her back and began to twist. "Maybe it is. What business is it of yours? I'm a husband to her, and she likes it well enough. At least I have two coins to rub together and I don't shoot blunt arrows like some I could name."

"You're disgusting," she spat. Her anger turned into a gasp of pain as he twisted her arm further.

"Stop it!" Legolas cried. "Stop hurting her and I will do what you say." He began to ease into the mail shirt, keeping an eye on Ottan.

"Will you come with me on my horse without a fight?"

Legolas nodded reluctantly.

"How do I know you won't struggle and bite me once we are out on the trail?" He kept a painful pressure on Tulie's arm.

"I will give you my word. I swear I will not fight you. Stop hurting Tulie."

"Your word," the man said derisively. "Elves!" He stopped to think for a moment. "And what will we tell our Dada about the nice man who brought us to him? Nothing bad, I trust." He gave Tulie's arm another painful jerk. "Swear it."

Legolas glared. "I promise."

Ottan laughed and let her go. He held out his hand to the child, who took it stiffly. Tulie watched as he led Legolas out to the yard and lifted him onto the horse. He mounted up, and the horse cantered off to the east.

_To be continued . . . ._


	4. Part Four: Dragon Weather

Did you ever wonder how Bilbo's mithril shirt came to be in Smaug's hoard? A surprise orc attack puts Thranduil into a crisis, and a very young Legolas must rely upon the kindness of strangers. If things weren't bad enough -- enter the dragon.

Disclaimer: The world of Middle-earth and the characters of Legolas, Thranduil, Galion, Smaug, and King Girion of Dale belong to JRR Tolkien, and I am merely borrowing them for a short time. All others are mine. Direct quotes are from the books of JRR Tolkien. This story was written for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of the readers. I am making no money from it. No horses were harmed in the writing of this story, however, one dragon was insulted.

My sincere thanks to my beta for this story, Lexin.

**Part Four: Dragon Weather**

The happy town of Dale was no more. In its place, Tamin found a smoking ruin. Not a building was left standing, and Tamin saw only charred piles of rubble in the shifting fog. The few people he could see, wandered weeping, or they sat stunned amid the ruins. What in the holy name of the Allfather had happened here, he asked himself?

The mists parted, and he saw an elf sitting on a rock with his head buried in his hands. The elf's garments were stained with ashes, his hands were blistered, and one long lock of his yellow hair had been partially burned away. The scorched and frizzled end lay lankly on his shoulder.

Tamin approached slowly. "Master Elf . . .?" The elf looked up blankly. His face looked young and fair, all but the eyes. His cheeks were streaked with soot cut through with pale tracks. "Master Elf, I seek Thranduil of Mirkwood. I am told he was here in Dale."

The elf stood up stiffly. "I am he."

Tamin could see that once he was on his feet this elf's bearing was indeed kingly, although weighed down by fatigue. "My lord, I am Tamin, a fowler of the marshlands. I bring news of your son."

Abruptly, the big elf's body crumpled and he sank back down onto the rock. "Spit it out, then. Put me out of my misery and make it quick."

Tamin was struck momentarily speechless. Had he just seen an Elf-lord go weak in the knees? "My lord," he stammered, "he is alive and well. My wife pulled him from the river five days ago and has cared for him since. We have him safe."

Thranduil made a strange sound like the air being let out of him and sucked back in. _"Le hannon, Elbereth, le hannon,_" he whispered.

As Tamin watched, the Elvenking slowly returned to life. He stood, seeming to grow inches in height and breadth, and he wiped his face with the heels of his hands and brushed off his garments. He looked Tamin in the eye. "I must go to him." He began to stride off but then stopped, as if recalling himself. "But wait, I have one duty to perform first."

Thranduil walked a short distance up the path, to where Tamin could see an indistinct pile of dark shapes. He bent and pulled an arrow, scorched and blackened, from the center of a charred quiver. He picked up a handful of dirt and scattered it over the still shapes. "_Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath_," he intoned.

"A final token for his remaining child," Thranduil said, sliding the arrow inside the scabbard of his sword. "If none of his people come to claim him he will lie with his son, at the head of his men, and they will melt into the earth together. A fitting elf grave for a brave king," he told the startled fowler, who realized he had just seen the last of the king of Dale. "We are done here. Take me to my son."

"It is more than a day's hard walk, my lord."

"Then we shall walk it, unless . . . ." He gave a strange high-pitched whistle and cocked his ears as if listening for something. For a long while Tamin heard nothing but the sputter of the ashes and the faint sound of the Running River, but then there came hoof beats out of the fog, and a large bay horse cantered up.

Thranduil smiled and laid his cheek against the horse's massive nose. "I am glad to see you, Celeg. I knew you were too smart for that dragon to get you!"

"Dragon?" said Tamin, who understood a bit of the Woodland tongue from his dealings with the raft elves.

"Aye," said Thranduil. "What else did you think could have caused such wrack and ruin? This is not the result of some house fire grown out of hand."

Tamin glanced nervously toward the mountain. "Then the Dwarves of Erebor . . .?"

"The Dwarves of Erebor are no more, may Aulë give them rest," said Thranduil. "Dale is finished too, and we should be away from here with all haste." He mounted and extended his hand.

"My lord?" said Tamin uncertainly, shy about taking the hand of a king.

"Get up behind me. My horse can bear the two of us with ease. He is swift as well, and we will see your home and my son before nightfall."

Tamin did as he was told and sat gingerly behind the saddle. The horse moved off, slowly at first, back into the western hills surrounding the dale. "My lord Thranduil, there is a swifter road across the northern heath, for those who know it. I came that way."

The elf nodded. "Show me the way then. And you will have to hang on tighter than that once we begin to make speed, or else I will be picking you up off the trail."

"My lord, I would not presume to lay hands upon your person."

"Master Fowler, I am in your debt. You may grab me wherever you like in order to keep yourself on this horse, although around the waist will do. You have given me back my son, and I will see that you have any reward you wish."

Tamin sighed. "It is not within your power to give me what I desire the most. But I would ask a favor of you. Be kind to my wife and stay your anger. She lied to your elf when he came asking about your son, and it is best you learn this from me. Never, in all our years together, could I give her a child. Your son was a gift to her spirit and it was her desire to keep him close that caused her folly. Please forgive her."

Thranduil remained silent for a time, and Tamin feared he grew wrathful, but when he spoke, his voice was gentle. "Master Fowler, I know the child hunger can make women behave in strange ways. It can do the same to men. No matter what tales you may have heard about me, you need not fear. I am still grateful. But for your wife's actions, my son might have been reclaimed sooner and come with me to Dale. I would not have had him near those killing grounds for all the wealth of the Lonely Mountain."

"You are not at all what I expected from the way the raftsmen speak of you," said Tamin candidly, forgetting for a moment that he was talking to an Elf-prince thousands of years his senior and notorious for his temper. "I find you to be quite a regular fellow."

Elven laughter can never be said to be 'booming' but Thranduil's resulting guffaw was definitely hearty. "I am usually better dressed, and I do not smell like a campfire, that much is true. As for the rest of it, please do not spread it about. My reputation as an unreasonable despot is carefully cultivated and very useful to me. Besides, you have not seen me when I am angry. You would not like to see me when I am angry."

At that moment, the horse shied and snorted as something very large flew overhead, unseen among the clouds.

"By the Allfather, what was that?" Tamin asked in fright, grabbing on tighter to keep from being thrown from the horse.

"It was the dragon," Thranduil replied, all trace of his good humor gone and replaced with a sudden concern.

"What brings him out here from the mountain? Is he after us?"

Thranduil shook his head. "Two things will make a dragon fly. It is not hunger, for he has eaten enough in the past day to sustain him for a year. The other thing is treasure. Dragons can smell it from far off, and they are drawn to it like a hound after a bitch in heat. What treasure could there be out on the heath? I like this not at all, Tamin."

He urged his horse into a faster gallop, despite the fact that the terrain was still hilly. Before Tamin had a chance to ask why they were hurrying into danger, he saw a disheveled figure stumble over the next rise, running toward them.

"This is trouble," he said. "That is my brother-in-law, and it can mean nothing good that he is here."

Sure enough, when the man spotted the elf on horseback, he turned and ran south in a pathetically obvious attempt to avoid a meeting. A fat man on foot is no match for an Elf-trained mount, and he was ridden down and cut off.

Thranduil leaped from his saddle and grabbed the man by his collar. "You know who I am. That much is clear. Why do you attempt to flee from me?" Gone was the easy-going elf of just moments before, and Tamin thought he might get the chance to see what Thranduil was like when he was angry. Knowing Ottan, this was almost a certainty.

"You, my lord? Nay, it was the dragon I was fleeing." Ottan began to sweat and squirm.

"Stop it, Ottan," Tamin said. "Your lying will only make it worse for you." He had a dreadful feeling that his brother-in-law was lying to save his own skin.

"Something brought that dragon to you, and I suspect it was a shirt of mithril. What were you doing with it? Tell me the truth, and tell me now!" When Ottan shook his head and sputtered denials, Thranduil took him by the throat with one hand and lifted him slowly off his feet until his kicking shoes were two feet off the ground. "I said, tell me NOW!"

"Your son . . . is wearing it . . . bringing him to you," Ottan managed to choke. "The dragon came . . . horse threw me. I ran . . . ."

"And you left him?" Thranduil threw back his head and uttered a howl of feral rage. He gave a mighty toss. Ottan landed hard into the dirt ten feet away and began to crawl off feebly. "Pray, Mortal, that I never lay eyes on you again!" In a flash, he was on his horse and galloping west. He disappeared over a rise in the trail and Tamin saw him no more.

oOo

Smaug crouched on the heath, tearing the body of a horse to bits and swallowing large chunks whole.

He had smelled the siren scent of mithril from far off. Curious, he had flown west and peered through the mists to spy a horse and rider coming across the heath. As the dragon swooped down upon them, the horse had reared and thrown its human rider, leaving an elfling clinging to the horse's mane. The dragon had taken down both horse and elfling at once, while the man fled on foot into the east. It would be a simple matter to catch him later. The horse was dead, and the elfling lay face down in the dirt, held fast by one of Smaug's talons in the back of his neck, right above the collar of the mail shirt. The elfling was alive for now. Smaug liked his meat alive and wiggling, if possible.

Smaug tore off another chunk of horse and raised his head to see a scorched and angry looking elf advancing toward him from the east with a sword in hand. How delightful, thought Smaug. Elf flesh was particularly delicious compared to men or dwarves, although the older ones could be a bit tough. The dragon was no brainless brute, for his kind were descended of the renegade Maiar spirits who had forsaken the light of Valinor to join the evil of Morgoth in the Elder Days. Some mortals were unaware of this, but with one of the _Eldar_, Smaug expected to enjoy some stimulating conversation along with his meal.

"Let the child go . . . Worm!" the elf growled.

The dragon regarded the newcomer out of one red-golden eye. "Why should I do a thing like that . . . Elf? The little one will make such a tender dessert after I have finished with this stringy nag."

"You will let him go, Worm, or I will kill you."

The dragon laughed, with a rasping sound like subterranean rocks grating together. This usually had the effect of throwing fear into the hearts of his prey. "I think you are in no position to dictate, Elf. One flex of my claw, and the elfling dies."

"And then, so do you," said the elf, with a feral grin.

"Little elf, I could burn you to a cinder with one blast of my breath," said the dragon, enjoying this duel immensely.

"Aye, that you could. But mark how close to you I have come while we talked. Even as my body burned to ash, my sword would be through your eye and into your filthy brain. This meal would be your last. Now give me my son, _nachuithron_!"

The great golden eye narrowed, for Smaug was suddenly feeling less confident. "Such language! And from a king! Judging from this fine little shirt, this can be only one elfling, and that elfling can have only one sire, Thranduil of Mirkwood. I knew your father, Elf."

"And I knew your mother . . . Worm!" Thranduil spat. "Are you ready to stop playing with me now, or do we die today?"

Smaug hissed. The remark about his mother had stung, for he had been quite fond of his mother. And she had been fond of him, even readily forgiving him for devouring his nest mates soon after coming out of the egg. His mother had given him one good piece of advice -- never come between an _adar_ and his elfling. And now, it seemed, he had ignored that advice in the worst way. Even worse, this _adar_ was from an Elven house known for its volatile temperament. How best to extricate himself from this standoff, Smaug wondered, while retaining a semblance of his dignity?

"Oropher was mad, they say, and so are you. Just my luck to meet up with an insane elf when all I want is a quiet meal and a nice bit of treasure. I can't go away empty handed. It is a point of honor. I must have something to make it worth the flight."

"Then take the mithril and choke on it. Just leave me my boy!"

The dragon paused just long enough to make it seem he had been seriously considering declining the offer and then nodded. "Done." He slowly withdrew his great claw from the back of the child's neck.

Thranduil remained tensed for the attack. "Legolas, roll away from the dragon and take off your mail. Very slowly . . . that is good. Drop it on the ground and come get behind me."

The great Worm clasped the mithril garment, running the liquid silver appreciatively through his talons. "Another day, Elf."

"Not if you have any sense," Thranduil replied.

The dragon laughed his grating laugh, flapped his red-gold wings, and took flight to the east.

oOo

The sun hung low in the sky when the big bay charger cantered into the yard. Tulie ran out of the cottage to see her husband riding behind a strange yellow haired elf. Legolas was with them too, seated in the front, in the protection of the older elf's arms. Tamin slid from the saddle and ran to embrace her. Tulie hugged him back hard for she had been worried to death. Meanwhile, the elf dismounted and lifted the child down after him.

Tulie suddenly realised who this strange elf might be, and she threw herself at his feet. "My lord Thranduil, forgive me! I tried to keep Ottan from taking your son, I truly did."

"By the _Rodyn_, woman, let go of my knees and get up. I am in no way angered with you." He took her by the elbows and helped her to her feet. "I really must ask Galion what is said about me to create such a reaction from total strangers," he said to no one in particular.

"Answer me one question, though," he continued. "Who gave my son those braids?"

"It was Tulie," said Legolas, quick to answer. "She let me help her with the cooking and she taught me how to catch a fish with my bare hands, and one day other children came and I got to play."

"It was Legolas who told me how to do them. Did I do wrong, my lord?" She looked up into the king's face to see that, despite his obvious weariness, he was fighting off a grin.

"Oh, aye, I have no doubt that it was my son who told you how to do them," he chuckled. "I would rather he had asked you for the plaits of a scholar or a bard, but my boy has always been after having a warrior's braids, and I see that, by hook or crook, he has got them. I am so happy to see him alive that I would not mind if you had braided his hair like a maiden or cut it off entirely." He took her hand and kissed it. "Mistress Tulie, I am in your debt."

She smiled and blushed a little. He was quite handsome, really, taller than her husband by half a head, and he looked very young despite the grime and deep lines of fatigue that marked him. Not so delicately beautiful as Legolas -- that must have come from the absent mother, but one could see the father in the son and vice versa.

"My lord," she exclaimed noticing his hands for the first time. "You are burned. It must pain you!"

"Hmm, I remember picking up a smoldering beam some time in the night," he said matter-of-factly. "It does hurt, now that you mention it. I had not noticed till now."

"Let me tend to you," she insisted. "Come inside, and I will bathe your hands and put some salve on the blisters."

"It was the dragon," Tamin said, as they went inside. "My love, Dale is gone."

"Dragon?" she said, with widening eyes.

Tamin nodded. "There is much to tell. Legolas already told us of how Ottan came for him. I fear Ottan will not be returning, for the last I saw of him he was making off for Esgaroth as fast as his legs could carry him. You will have to tell Serka, so that she may join him . . . or not."

"Legs? What happened to his horse?"

"The dragon ate it," said Thranduil, "and if I ever see that miserable Mortal again I will break both of his legs for him."

"He called me a bastard," Legolas added. "What is a bastard, _Ada_?"

"Something you are not, my son," Thranduil said gently. Not so gently, he added, "I may break his arms for that."

"Then he was being silly," said Legolas. "But he hurt Tulie, and that was not so nice."

"Please save an arm for me to break, Sire," Tamin said quietly.

"_Ada_," Legolas continued, "that word you called the dragon, what did that mean?"

Tulie, busy at the hearth heating water, heard Thranduil choke, and she turned her head to see a look of dismay on the Elf-king's face.

"Legolas, I would like you to forget that word. If you cannot forget it I must insist you never ever say it. At least not until you are as old as I am and you find yourself in an identical situation." Thranduil flashed Tulie a quick apologetic smile.

Dragons, devoured horses, cursing elves -- something had happened that the men had not told her, and then she realized what was missing. The mithril shirt was gone. Thranduil of Mirkwood, whose reputed love of treasure was legendary, was seemingly unconcerned with the absence of an object worth a fair portion of his kingdom.

She steeped some aromatic herbs in the hot water, and carried the bowl to the table. Thranduil offered up his palms, and Tulie gently dabbed at the burns with a moistened cloth, paying special attention to where the blisters had broken open from the pressure of wielding a sword and holding reins. She spread some salve on the palms and began wrapping them in clean bandages. Thranduil heaved a sigh of contentment. "Thank you, Mistress. That feels much better.

"I am having a thought," he said, as she continued to work. "My son's nursemaid has long seemed unhappy with her duties. Legolas likes you very much, and you are very good with him. Would you consider returning with us to Mirkwood with us to look after him? He is becoming too old for a nursemaid, so we could call you a governess, if you like."

Tulie's spirits soared and then fell again. "But what of my husband?"

"Those are beautifully fletched arrows I see in the corner. My own elves could learn a thing or two from such a craftsman. And, frankly, I enjoy grouse and pheasant at my table, which my own hunters seem unable to supply in sufficient quantity. Master Tamin would be a very useful addition to my staff. I know it would be a sacrifice for you both to leave your life in this place, but I would ask you to consider it."

Tulie saw a look pass between the two men.

"Sire," said Tamin, "I would not like to accept charity."

"Nonsense. Have you not been listening to what I said? Master Fowler, tell me truly, do I have the reputation of being a charitable elf?"

Tamin smiled. "No, my lord. You do not have that reputation."

"Good, then I hope that's settled."

"By the look on my wife's face, it is settled, whether I will it or not. Although, I hasten to say that I am very willing to trade this marsh cottage for comfortable quarters in your fabled palace. Shall my first duty be to go to the south channel and inform your elves of your return?"

Thranduil nodded. "But not tonight, Tamin. I have been awake for nigh onto two days straight, and those days were hellish. I am weary to the bone. You must be as well. Tonight, all I want is a hot meal, the company of kind folk, and a bed to rest myself. I intend to hold my son close this night, and I suggest, Master Fowler, that you do the same with your wife."

Tulie watched the king from across the room. Legolas had climbed into his father's lap, and Thranduil absent-mindedly rubbed at a reddish mark on the back of the child's neck as he spoke. "Life is so fragile. Two days ago, I feared my son was lost, and I envied Girion his handsome young heir. Now Girion and his son are dead, and his widow and orphan will need my aid. There are many widows and orphans in Esgaroth who will need my aid in the days to come. How quickly it all changes. The stoutest armor proved no protection." He sighed. "Even stone gates are no defense against death when it wishes to enter. All we can do is to savor the time we have to spend with those we hold dearest."

oOo

It was late into the evening by the time Tulie had finished up the washing and began blowing out the candles. They had enjoyed a pleasant meal, and Tamin had shared a bottle of her homemade wine with Thranduil. The two men had grown quite merry, leading Tamin to sing a song whose lyrics Tulie had always found to be rather improper, but the Elvenking had laughed like a naughty boy. Then, after refusing the offer of Tamin and Tulie's bed, he had yawned, excused himself, and carried his son off to bed in the spare room.

Tulie now peeked in to see if all was well. Thranduil had somehow managed to fit himself into the small bed, and he and his son were curled tightly together.

"Should their eyes be open like that?" Tamin asked, joining her in the doorway. "He really should have taken our bed."

"That's how they sleep, Tamin."

"Hmm. It is passing strange, although I suppose we'll have to become accustomed to it now that we'll be living among them." He put his arms around her. "I wonder if they're all that good looking? I'm not sure how I feel about sharing you with a palace full of handsome elves."

"Don't be silly. I'm sure the elf women are just as beautiful. We'll be the only two old people in the place."

"Old? Bite your tongue, wife!"

"What are you doing, Tamin?" she laughed, feeling him kiss the top of her head.

"Obeying my new Elven-lord's command, beloved," he said, leading her off to bed.

_To be continued . . . ._

**Author's Note: **My thanks to Claudio for a more accurate Sindarin rendition of Thranduil's insult to Smaug. The meaning should be apparent from context but may be obtained by contacting the author privately.

**Translations:  
**_Le hannon: _Thank you  
_Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath: _May they find peace in death  
_adar_: father  
_Rodyn: _Valar, the gods


	5. Epilogue

Disclaimer: The world of Middle-earth and the characters of Legolas, Thranduil, Galion, Smaug, and King Girion of Dale belong to JRR Tolkien, and I am merely borrowing them for a short time. All others are mine. Direct quotes are from the books of JRR Tolkien. This story was written for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of the readers. I am making no money from it. No horses were harmed in the writing of this story, however, one dragon was insulted.

My sincere thanks to my beta for this story, Lexin.

**Epilogue: The Forest**

The Elvenking's party made its way westward through the forest. Galion, newly returned from Esgaroth, rode beside his king. A few paces back, Tamin rode his own horse, and Tulie perched gingerly on Legolas's pony, which was being led by an elvish groom. Legolas noticed that both the _Edain_ were looking a little wide-eyed at the dark vistas of the wood. Séregon and Magorion were there too, along with twice the number of archers and spearmen that had accompanied the king's party when it had left Thranduil's palace a fortnight before.

Legolas shared the great bay charger with his father, seated to the front and held tightly in Thranduil's arms. The hated mithril coat was gone now, and Legolas wished the dragon joy of it. His _Ada's_ arms were all the armor he wanted or needed.

Legolas would have liked to have seen Dale before the Dragon burned it. He would have liked to have met Girion's youngest son as well, and he felt sadness for this young human boy who now had no father to look after him.

"_Ada_," he said. "When we get home, may I have a bow to practice with? Now that Tulie has given me the braids?"

He felt his father's arms tighten around him, and he felt Thranduil's chest heave with a sigh. "You are very young, Legolas, but I suppose it is time. Yes, you may have a bow."

"And knives?" He heard Galion cough and Magorion suppress what sounded like a laugh.

"Yes, my son. You may have knives, and my chief general will school you in their use. Will you not, Magorion?" said Thranduil. "Sharp knives."

Legolas smiled, as he saw the bridge come into view, with the vast stone gates of the palace beyond. Home was in sight, and all was well.

The End

Author's notes:

I am new to this archive and I am still getting used to the formatting. So far, I have not discovered a way to place an extra space or a placeholder between my scene changes within a chapter. Since this story cntains many changes of POV, this may be a bit confusing. Be assured, if I ever find a way that works, this will be rectified. Meanwhile, my apologies.

This story was written as a counter to the numerous tales of Thranduil being an abusive father and an unpleasant elf in general. I now realize that Thranduil hardly needs my defense, but the story stands.

In my opinion, this is a plausible way for Bilbo's mithril shirt to have gotten into the hoard of the dragon, Smaug. After reading The Unfinished Tales, I came to realize that Elven royal families were not exactly prevalent east of the Misty Mountains and that the mithril mail armor could well have belonged to someone we know. I had very seriously considered making the mithril armor a family heirloom belonging to Thranduil or even Oropher in childhood, yet in The Hobbit, Thorin says that the mithril coat was made by "his people." For the purposes of this story, I take it to mean it was fashioned by the dwarves of Erebor. It is a costly thing, and it symbolizes the love Thranduil has for his son.

Here comes my customary note on elves and saddles. For those who will insist that elves never use saddles, I cite the following example of an elf using both saddle and bridle. The horse is Asfaloth; the rider is Glorfindel:

_"Suddenly into view below came a white horse, gleaming in the shadows, running swiftly. In the dusk its headstall flickered and flashed, as if it were studded with gems like living stars. ( . . .) the rider had reined in his horse and halted ( . . .)'You shall ride my horse,' said Glorfindel. 'I will shorten the stirrups up to the saddle skirts, and you must sit as tight as you can." Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter XII: Flight to the Ford_

It makes sense to me that on an occasion when Thranduil and his retinue are riding in state to Dale, they will chose to use saddles.


End file.
